


Error A Fault, Truth A Discourtesy

by Bofur1



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Anger, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Annoyed Fundin, Apologies, Arguing, Awkward Conversations, Big Brothers, Brother Feels, Chases, Clinging, Fights, Gen, Hiding, Hugs, Imagination, Kid Fic, Little Brothers, Lost Boys, Major Character Injury, Medical Procedures, Over the Top, Running Away, Size Difference, Swordplay, Toys, Training
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-08
Updated: 2015-12-08
Packaged: 2018-05-05 13:53:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5377646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bofur1/pseuds/Bofur1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"I remember how irritating I must have been," Gróin muses, "and the more I think on't, the more amazed I am that Fundin never tried to kill me."<em></em></em>
</p><p>Every great Dwarven warrior must train with a blade to become so great. With a clingy younger brother who apparently wants to prove his worth, Fundin doesn't expect to get much done in that area.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Error A Fault, Truth A Discourtesy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Daughter_of_the_Mountains](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daughter_of_the_Mountains/gifts), [madame_faust](https://archiveofourown.org/users/madame_faust/gifts).



> Because you've both inspired me to love the line of Farin <3
> 
> I've read that Dwarves are considered mature at forty years old and humans are considered mature at twenty. For every five human years, Dwarves age ten. In this story Fundin is thirty years old in Dwarven reckoning; in human reckoning that's fifteen. Gróin is twenty-one years old in Dwarven reckoning; in human reckoning that's ten/eleven.

“I want to play, brother!”

Thirty-year-old Fundin’s brows knit at Gróin’s exclamation, somewhere off to his left. With all of his friends otherwise engaged, he had been enjoying the quiet practice on his own. Ignoring the distraction for the moment, he swiped his sword at the enemy he was imagining before him, slicing into the phantom Petty-Dwarf’s shoulder with strength that would have likely taken off the arm.

As clean as the blow was, Fundin was annoyed to find he couldn’t be satisfied with it. Gróin’s sudden arrival had taken away from the moment, but Fundin wasn’t very surprised. Recently as Fundin had gotten more and more invested in his studies and training, the Dwarfling had started getting more and more irritating and clingy. They’d been having more arguments and Fundin’s patience had been withering. Even now he was starting to tense, going against what all of his instructors advised when in a fight.

“Fundin! I wanna play too,” Gróin repeated eagerly, squeezing through the fence surrounding the open ring.

“I’m not playing,” Fundin told him at last, biting back a deep sigh as he brought himself out of his fighting stance, looking down at his brother, nine years short in both height and age. “I’m training.”

Gróin frowned lightly. Training was a matter of vexation to him; several times he had asked older boys if he could train with them and always he was rejected, even laughed at, but it wasn’t as if Fundin knew that. That idea was what made it safe to continue on his chosen path, questioning hopefully, “Can I _train_ with you then? I’m sure I can do it just as good.”

Swinging again at his foe, Fundin ducked gracefully, chuckling softly at Gróin’s words. “Really now? No offense, Gróin, but this sword I’m using is nearly as big as you!”

Though Fundin _had_ said ‘no offense’, that stung and Gróin’s tone reflected it as he argued, “Doesn’t mean I can’t swing it! Doesn’t mean I can’t win!”

Fundin ceased his movement mid-swing at that declaration, matching his brother’s defiant glare. “Hm. That’s _exactly_ what it means, bixbite.” He knew Gróin positively hated that nickname but he wasn’t in the mood to be indulgent toward him.

To his relief Gróin grew red in the face, doubled his fists and stormed off. Fundin rolled his eyes, knowing the little one was likely going off to tattle at Ama about him, but at least for now he had a bit of peace and quiet again. He took his time putting together a mental image of an Orc, snarling in his vulgar Black Speech and bearing a rapier, dark with blood already spilled. Fundin was the last line of defense between him and the rest of the village. It was up to him to perform a _rukhsfarf_. What would the outcome of this—

A sharp smack caused pain to bloom over his lower back. Crying out in surprise, Fundin whirled around to see that Gróin had returned, gaining a blow by sneaking up behind him. In his hands he held a short, crude wooden sword Fundin recognized as one of his favorite playthings—with which he had struck him.

“You little—!” Fundin started incredulously, only for Gróin to swing it again, glancing the ‘sharp’ end off of his knee.

Just like that, Fundin’s temper sprang, erasing anything he’d been told about staying calm and relaxed during an attack. He sidestepped his brother’s clumsy swing and brought his sword down hard on the toy. Though his own sword was made of fiberglass, since he hadn’t yet graduated to a true battle blade, it was of course much stronger than the old wood and promptly splintered it.

Gróin gasped and had barely enough time to drop it before Fundin rotated his weapon upward and then brought it down, landing Gróin’s shoulder just as he had the imaginary Petty-Dwarf. The force sent Gróin to his hands and knees in the dirt and Fundin stepped back, satisfied.

“Learned your lesson?” he demanded. He wasn’t expecting it, but he was ready to continue the fight if Gróin decided he hadn’t.

His brother didn’t look up, staring at his hands supporting him. Gradually he straightened so his knees took his weight. Lifting a tentative hand to his shoulder, he brushed over the tear in his tunic and let out a pitiful sob.

The sound broke through Fundin’s pride and anger and he dropped his sword as though it had burned him. “Gróin…D-Did I hurt you?” he stammered worriedly, dropping into a crouch so he could inspect the damage. “Come here—”

“No!” Gróin burst out, dark eyes welling as he recoiled, scrambling to his feet and taking off with a burst of speed Fundin hadn’t expected. He wasted precious seconds gaping as Gróin scrambled through the fence and made a beeline for the woods some good yards away.

Rising, Fundin followed the course, easily vaulting over the fence instead of through it. “Don’t go in there, Gróin!” he hollered too late; the younger Dwarf was already disappearing. Cursing in alarm, Fundin stormed through the trees after him.

 _Stupid, stupid!_ he agonized, though he wasn’t sure if he was directing this at himself or at Gróin for entering this place. Perhaps it was both. His breaths caught as he recalled that their father Farin, along with some of the other adults, were at this moment hunting somewhere in this area. Maybe one of them would come across Gróin and stop him long enough for Fundin to catch up and explain what had happened.

But what if…what if one of them saw Gróin from a distance and mistook him for an animal? What if—

Even as dread threatened to strangle him, Fundin realized that he had just discovered the solution to his problem. If he thought of how to track an animal…He knelt, suppressing a tremble as he did so, and examined the disturbed brush before moving in what he fervently prayed was the right direction.

As nerve-wracking as it was, Fundin continued at this pace, stopping, studying, and taking off again once he got his bearings. Finally, after what seemed like an entire Age of Middle Earth, he picked up on quiet whimpering somewhere nearby. He slowed, treading more softly, and faced a small glade—so small, in fact, that he almost couldn’t squeeze into it. That was a good strategy on Gróin’s part, Fundin admitted to himself, ducking the branches which tried to bar his entrance. When he came upon a particularly persistent one, he reluctantly grasped and snapped it.

Gróin startled when he heard the noise, leaping up from the log he’d sat on and looking wildly about for a way of escape. Fundin barreled in and grabbed him before he could try it, pulling him close and keeping him that way even as Gróin thrashed and kicked against him, trying to pry free.

“Gróin, thank Durin,” Fundin murmured, uncaring if Gróin heard him over his protesting mewls of alarm. “Stop kicking me, _nadadith_ —that hurts.” Fundin winced as Gróin spitefully kicked him one more time, harder than before. “Alright, I deserved that.”

“Leave me alone!” Gróin growled, writhing and pushing against Fundin’s arms, trying to break through them.

“No,” Fundin countered bluntly, tightening his grip and pinning Gróin against his chest with one hand while he pulled at his brother’s tunic with the other, widening the rip and offering up a silent apology to their Ama. Gróin stilled with a pained hiss as soon as Fundin touched the skin underneath.

“Looks like you’ve got a bit of fiberglass in there,” Fundin informed him.

“So go laugh about it with your friends, since you’re so much better than me,” Gróin mumbled darkly, taking Fundin aback.

“What are you talking about?” he asked as he plucked some leaves off a nearby plant he recognized. Gróin didn’t elaborate, so Fundin hazarded a guess. “You just aren’t trained at fighting yet. I…shouldn’t’ve rubbed it in, much less…doing what I did.” Now that he was facing the reality of what that was, Fundin felt guilt and sorrow pool in his stomach. “I’m sorry.”

He waited and there was no response. Gróin wouldn’t look at him, so Fundin pursed his lips and released him, glad when he didn’t bolt. Using both hands now, Fundin crushed the leaves he’d taken and then pressed them against Gróin’s shoulder.

After a time he removed them, asking solemnly, “How’s that, beryl? It ought to get some of the glass out.”

‘Beryl’ was a nickname Gróin would actually answer to, since Ama had dubbed it his birthstone. “Yeh, it did,” he admitted gingerly.

Fundin tried to smile but didn’t quite manage it. “Right then. Good.” Impulsively he took Gróin in his arms a second time, his next words tumbling over each other. “You would’ve won, brother.”

Because of his surprise, Gróin didn’t try to pull away. “What…?”

“Had it been with real blades, I mean. You would have cut me down from behind! A low blow, but a winning one. And if that hadn’t done, the slice to the knee would’ve.”

Before Gróin could reply, they heard a rustling off to their right. Both acted on instinct, Fundin maneuvering himself between his brother and the potential threat, Gróin unprotesting as he latched onto Fundin’s wrist.

“Now what mischief are you two finding in the forest, where—I distinctly remember telling at least one of my sons—you _shouldn’t_ be?” Farin inquired wryly as he cut through the branches, making a new hole on the opposite side of the glade.

Fundin and Gróin glanced at each other. Even if they might’ve found it hard to forgive each other, it was best to have some backup when it came to taking on their father.

**Author's Note:**

> Rukhsfarf: the act of breaking in a new sword by killing a stray Orc  
> Nadadith: "little brother"


End file.
